Chapter 453: First Arrival in the Immortal Realm

At the moment he passed through the silver stone gate, Wang Ping thought he would see light. Not the golden light of the passage, but the sunlight of the immortal realm—he had imagined it many times; the immortal realm's sunlight should be warm and bright, like the warmth of spring afternoon sun on his skin, like the softness of a mother's hand resting on his forehead.

His foot landed on the ground, stepping on something soft, like thick dry leaves. He lowered his head and saw not leaves but ash. Very fine, very light, grayish-white, laid in a thick layer that would sink underfoot, sinking to his ankle. The ash rose, floating in the air like mist, like smoke, like the void after waking from a dream.

Wang Ping raised his head. The sky was grayish-white, not because clouds blocked it, but because the sky itself was grayish-white. No sun, no moon, no stars. Only a blurred patch of light hung in the sky, bright but not glaring, because something blocked the light. What blocked it was not clouds, mist, or smoke, but 'emptiness.' The air was too thick, thick as a wall, light could not pass through. He stood beneath the grayish-white sky, on the grayish-white ash, in the grayish-white world.

Wind blew from afar. Not warm, but cold—cold like an autumn evening, like a winter morning, like a person's sigh. The wind carried ash, which clung to his robe, his hair, his face. He did not wipe it away, knowing it would return. When the wind stopped, the ash fell, landing on the ground, on his shoulders, on the backs of his hands. He lowered his head to look at the ash on the back of his hand; the ash was extremely fine, like dust, like flour, like powdered time. He blew gently, and the ash rose, floated in the air for a moment, then fell back to the same spot. It had nowhere else to go.

The ground beneath his feet was hard, hard as stone. But it was not stone; it was dry, cracked earth. The cracks were large enough to fit a fist. They were deep, bottomless, like countless mouths gaping, voicelessly shouting. Wang Ping crouched, thrust his hand into a crack, and his fingers scraped against the edge. The edge was sharp as a blade, cutting his finger; a bead of blood welled from the wound, tiny and red. He pulled his finger back, put it in his mouth, and tasted the blood—salty, fishy, hot. The earth does not bleed; it only cracks.

In the distance, half of the mountain range had collapsed. Not blown apart, but 'collapsed'—like a person standing too long, legs weakening, unable to support, then falling. Piles of rubble lay at the mountain's base, heap upon heap, like graves, like monuments, like forgotten dreams. Wang Ping walked toward the mountain, ash rising and settling with his steps. He walked a long way, reached the mountain's foot, and stood before the rubble. The stones were huge, taller than him, so high he had to tilt his head to see their tops. Characters were carved on the stone, not immortal runes but mundane script. The writing was blurred, nearly illegible. He leaned in and saw a few strokes: horizontal, vertical, left-falling, right-falling. Those strokes once formed a person's name. The name had been worn by wind, rain, and time, reduced to a few strokes, so faint the name could no longer be recognized. Yet the person remained, within the stone, among those blurred strokes.

He turned and left the mountain's base. After a while he saw a river. The river was wide—so wide that a person on the far bank looked like a dot. It was deep—so deep the bottom could not be seen. But the river held no water, only a dry riverbed and stones smoothed by past currents. The stones were round and smooth, like pebbles, like eggs, like a baby's head. They lay motionless on the bed, as if sleeping, as if waiting for water to return. Wang Ping stepped on a stone; it rolled under his feet, making a splashing sound like flowing water. He walked slowly, not wanting to crush those stones. The stones had waited thirty thousand years for water to return. The water never came, but the stones remained.

Both banks of the river once bore immortal trees. Now only stumps remained. The stumps were tall—up to his waist. Thick—two people could barely encircle them. Rings were carved on the stumps, one after another, dense and close. Wang Ping crouched, sliding his finger over the rings. One ring, two rings, three rings. He counted hundreds, his hand grew sore, and he stopped. The rings continued downward, beyond his sight. He stood, pressing his palm against the stump. The stump was cold—cold as ice, as snow, as death. Yet his hand sensed a temperature—not cold, but 'once having had warmth.' When the tree lived, its trunk was warm. Sunlight shone on it, leaves swayed in the wind, birds sang in the branches, insects bored into the bark. The tree felt no pain, for it was alive. Being alive meant no pain.

He walked for three days. During those three days he saw no person, no living thing—only the grayish-white sky, cracked earth, collapsed mountains, dry riverbeds, dead trees. He walked slowly, because he was observing. Observing this half-dead immortal realm, the remnants of order's power, the dissipation of chaotic qi, the traces of time. He observed, and he recorded.

On the morning of the fourth day, he saw a cave.

The cave lay at the mountain's base, behind a pile of rubble. Its mouth was tiny—just enough for one person to pass. The rim was round, not natural, but dug by hand. The digging was rough, pitted and uneven, as if clawed out. Wang Ping crouched and peered inside. The cave was deep, its bottom unseen. Inside glowed a faint light—not sunlight, not moonlight, but torchlight. The torch burned on the wall, its flame tiny, about to gutter. The light swayed in the wind, flickering bright and dim, like a person's breath. He squeezed into the cave. The passage was narrow, his shoulders scraping the walls. The walls were rough, abrasive enough to fray his robe. He did not stop, for he heard a sound—not a human voice, but the sound of 'silence.' So silent his ears rang, a buzzing like a swarm of mosquitoes flying past his ears. He followed the tunnel inward, walking a long while until it widened enough for him to stand upright. He straightened and looked ahead.

There, a group of people.

They hid in the cave's deepest recess, huddled together like a flock of startled rabbits. Torches were stuck in the walls, their flames fluttering weakly in the wind, so feeble they were about to die. Firelight played on their faces, flickering bright and dim. Their faces bore dust, fatigue, a hint of numbness. One lifted his head, glanced at Wang Ping, then lowered it. Another hugged his knees, burying his face in them, shoulders trembling. Another closed his eyes, lips moving—as if chanting sutras, as if praying, as if waiting for death.

Their cultivation was low. The highest among them was mid-Void God stage; most were Nascent Soul stage. Their robes were old, so worn the original color could not be seen. Their hair was long, dragging on the ground, uncombed for ages. Their fingernails were long, curled, uncut for ages. They were descendants of ancient immortals who survived after the immortal realm collapsed. Generation after generation they hid here, in the cave, underground, in darkness. They hid for countless years, until they forgot the color of sunlight, the sound of wind, the scent of flowers. They remembered only one thing—to stay alive.

In the cave's deepest part sat an old man. His hair was white as snow, as frost, like old age. His back was hunched so far that his chin nearly touched his knees. He leaned on a wooden staff, thick and rough, its surface covered with patterns not carved but grown from within, like tree rings, one after another, dense and close. His eyes were closed, but Wang Ping knew he was not asleep, because his lips moved—not speaking, but breathing. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly, like a person taking a deep breath in the dead of night. He was conserving strength, for each bit used was gone, never to be replenished.

Wang Ping approached; his footsteps echoed in the cave—tap, tap, tap—like a bell, like a heartbeat, like a countdown. The old man heard, opened his eyes. His eyes were bright. Beneath yellowed sclera, his pupils remained clear, clear as mountain spring water, as autumn sky, as a newborn infant. He gazed at Wang Ping for a long time—long enough for the torch flame to flicker a dozen times, long enough for shadows on the cave wall to sway a dozen times, long enough for Wang Ping's legs to go numb. Then he extended a trembling hand; his fingers were long, knuckles thick, nails black—not dirty, but dead. Nails dead for many years, no longer growing, no longer shedding, just black. His hand hovered in the air a moment, as if hesitating, as if confirming, as if dreaming. Then he touched Wang Ping's robe.

His robe was grayish-white, the uniform of the Ninth Dao Institute, old, its edges frayed. The old man's fingers slid over the cloth, feeling its weave, the thickness of the threads, the density of the stitches. His fingers stopped there, unmoving. His eyes teared—not from sorrow, but from age; aging makes the eyes weep on their own.

"You came from the lower realm?"

The old man's voice was hoarse, hoarse like sandpaper scraping wood, like dry leaves crushed underfoot, like someone who hasn't drunk water in a long time speaking. Each word was light, light as wind, as a dream, as if it didn't exist. Yet Wang Ping heard it. He nodded.

The old man's tears flowed worse. They trickled from the corners of his eyes, down the wrinkles of his face, to his chin, and fell to the ground with soft plops—puff, puff, puff. Each tear was tiny, but the sound was loud, echoing in the cave like a heartbeat.

"Thirty thousand years have passed. Finally someone has come."

He grasped Wang Ping's hand, clutching the corner of his robe tightly, fearing he might vanish. He held on for a long time, until his hand trembled and his knuckles whitened. Then he released it, pointing at the people nearby, one by one.

"This is his grandson, this is his great-grandson, this is his great-great-grandson. This is his disciple, this is his disciple's son, this is his disciple's great-grandson. I don't remember their names—there are too many to keep. But they know who I am. I am their grandfather, great-grandfather, ancestral elder. I am the oldest person here. I don't even remember my own name."

The old man smiled, a faint smile barely visible. Yet his eyes held mirth, like a calm lake ruffled by wind, ripples spreading in circles. He smiled at himself, at his own old age, at having forgotten even his name. Forgetting the name, he remained.

Wang Ping sat opposite him. The ground had no cushion, only stone. The stone was cold; the chill crept up from his buttocks to his waist, his back, his neck. He remained still, listening.

The old man told him the immortal realm was slowly dying. The remnants of order's power continued to erode the land, never ceasing since the day the Lord of Order fell. Silver-white light crawled deep underground, like a serpent, like a root, like a blood vessel. Wherever it passed, stone grew brittle, earth dried, springs turned murky, immortal trees withered. Chaotic qi grew ever thinner, thinning to near imperceptibility. The immortal realm had originally relied on chaotic qi for support—like the pillars of a house, as each pillar broke one by one, the house collapsed. Immortal spirit qi also exhausted, depleted to the point cultivators could no longer practice. Among the cultivators here, the highest cultivation was not mid-Void God but early Void God. That mid-Void God individual had already died, long ago. His corpse lay buried behind the cave, in the rubble heap, without a tombstone, without a name, without anything. Yet his cultivation remained, residing in his grandson. The grandson inherited his cultivation but not his Dao. Dao is not transmitted; it is realized individually.

Immortals died or fled. Thirty thousand years ago, the Lord of Order passed from the immortal realm into the spirit realm. The immortals pursued him, fighting a battle in the passageway. Many died in that battle. Those who survived were wounded, maimed, or saw their cultivation drop. Some left, departing the immortal realm for the myriad worlds, for the Return to the Void, for places unknown to anyone. Those who remained were unable to flee—the old, weak, sick, and disabled, who could go no farther. They hid here, underground, in darkness, waiting to die, waiting many years.

Wang Ping extended his hand, palm upward. Chaotic power surged from his palm, grayish, like the sky before dawn. Light brightened in the cave, illuminating the cracks on the wall, the smoke on the torch, and their faces. They lifted their heads to behold that light. The light was warm and soft, like a mother's hand. Someone sobbed—not tears but a low 'wu'. The sound from their throats was low and heavy, like a beast's mournful cry. They had not seen light in a long time. This light was not torchlight; it was true light issuing from a person. The light held warmth, life, hope.

The old man's hand ceased trembling.

He struggled to rise from the ground, his staff striking the floor with a deep 'dong', loud. He dropped to his knees—not slowly, but with a sudden 'plop'. His knees hit the stone, painful, yet he did not frown. The people in the cave followed suit, dropping with repeated 'plops', like stones thrown into water. The old man lowered his head, forehead touching the ground.

"Chaos Immortal Venerable. You have finally arrived."

Wang Ping bent down to support him. The old man's body was light—as light as paper, as a feather, as if nonexistent. Thirty years of waiting had drained him of strength, memory, name. All that remained was this kneeling, this utterance of 'Chaos Immortal Venerable'. Wang Ping helped him up and let him sit back on the stone.

"How does one walk the path of Refining the Void?"

The old man closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, recalling, searching for memories long unused. He found them. He opened his eyes.

"Refining the Void requires condensing a Dao fruit. The Dao fruit needs the source of chaotic origin—the Chaotic Source Sea. The Source Sea lies deep in the immortal realm, amidst the ruins of the ancient immortal-demon war, in places even immortals fear to go."

He pointed his finger toward the cave's depths, toward darkness, toward the unseen places.

"From here go north; walk a month and you will see a mountain. The mountain is so high it pierces the heavens. Cross that mountain and you will see a sea. The sea is not made of water but of essence—the Chaotic Source Sea."

Wang Ping gazed into the cave's depths, the dark depths. He could not see the mountain, the sea, or the road. Yet he knew the road lay there.

"The road is far and perilous. But you must go, for if you do not, you will remain forever at the Void God stage."

Having spoken those words, the old man closed his eyes—not sleep, but a 'rest'. He had said too much; his breath was insufficient. He needed to gather his strength, and when he had enough, he would continue. Wang Ping did not ask for the next sentence, knowing the old man had already said the essentials: where the road lay, how to walk it, how far, how dangerous. What remained was a matter of legs.

He rose from the ground. His legs were no longer numb, though he did not know how long he had sat. He bowed to the old man, bowed to the people in the cave, turned, and walked into the darkness. Behind him, the torch flames fluttered in the wind, flickering bright and dim. The old man opened his eyes, watching his back. His lips moved, soundlessly. He was saying—'Stay alive.'

Wang Ping walked out of the cave and stood beneath the grayish-white sky. Wind blew from afar, cool, carrying the taste of ash. He drew a deep breath; the air held dust, dryness, death. He swallowed it deep. To the north lay the direction of the Chaotic Source Sea. His road lay north. He stepped forward, heading north. Ash rose and fell beneath his feet. His silhouette grew ever smaller in the grayish-white world, finally vanishing—like a drop of ink dispersing in water.